


Six Random Kisses and Two That Absolutely Were Not

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for, directedbysherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Billy Wiggins should patent his kissing technique, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Party, Rare Pairings, Snogging, all kinds of kisses--sweet humorous experimental wistful mysterious sexy rough, random pairings, this is a coherent story despite the random pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for, https://archiveofourown.org/users/directedbysherlock/pseuds/directedbysherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s New Year’s Eve and Mrs. Hudson has organized a party at 221B. Drinks and holiday sentiment are flowing, leading to an evening filled with six random kisses between unexpected pairs and two final kisses that are long overdue.</p><p>Quick note: This is a joint work between the two authors listed. For a fun challenge, we wrote 12 party guest names on slips of paper and literally drew them out of a hat to make completely random pairings. Each chapter reflects one of those pairings, with each author writing four chapters.</p><p>The last two kisses are intentional, as one of the authors writes mostly Johnlock and the other lots of Molstrade, so you can guess where this ends up! We hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snog

The party had grown louder, voices and laughter and clinking glasses and constantly changing music as people turned the volume up and down and swapped in their own playlist for someone else’s. The orchestrator of the New Year’s Eve celebration, Mrs. Hudson, sat beaming in the center of it all, a never-empty martini glass in one hand. Not one single person in the room would have been doing anything else that night if not for Mrs. Hudson’s cheerfully firm insistence that they come round to Baker Street for some drinks. With her bad hip and all, one never knew if this might be her last time seeing the year change over…

John now stood in the kitchen doorway scanning the small crowd to see who might need a drink, four bottles of beer in his hands. He passed by DI Dimmock and Greg Lestrade, giving a small nod; handed a beer to James Sholto, who sat trapped across from Mrs. Hudson, smiling politely; saw Sherlock in the corner arguing about something with Philip Anderson and his lady friend; noticed Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper chatting animatedly next to the window. He handed off another bottle to Janine Hawkins, who was nearly bent over laughing at something Billy Wiggins was saying, and noted Mycroft Holmes and Anthea sitting on the sofa staring at their phones, a mysterious smile on Anthea’s face.

John circled back to the kitchen, glancing out the flat door as a movement caught his eye. It was Sally Donovan, who had just sat down on the bottom step of the stairs that led up to his room. She pushed back her hair with a heavy sigh. 

John crossed over to her and held out a bottle. “You look like you could use another drink.” 

Sally looked up, eyed the bottle, then swiped it from his hand and tilted it back, taking a long pull. “God, I needed that,” she finally said, wiping her mouth. 

“Rough day?”

“Double homicide, informing next of kin, and all the paperwork that goes with it… So yeah, rough day.”

John took a sip from his own bottle, looked at her thoughtfully. “That’s not easy, telling family members about a death.”

Sally shrugged. “It’s not, but somebody’s got to do it.”

John nodded, suddenly curious about Sally. He’d never really talked to her and was now intrigued. “Mind if I join you?” He indicated the step, and she moved closer to the wall to make room for him. They sat holding their beers, watching the party from a distance. “Why did you go into police work?” he asked.

“I dunno, some outraged need for justice, I suppose,” she answered drily. “Why’d you become a doctor?”

"Some outraged need to prove something to my father,” John replied, a note of bitterness in his voice. He took a quick drink, trying to cover it up.

Sally glanced at him, assessing him, then looked away. Her eyes landed on Sherlock, who was still speaking agitatedly to Anderson, his hands gesturing wildly. “What's it like, living with him?” she asked, pointing her bottle at Sherlock.

John watched Sherlock for another moment. “It’s never boring,” he answered with his standard reply, letting it go at that.

“I tried to warn you,” Sally said. “He’s not normal.”

John let out a short laugh. “Look at all those people in front of you. Who in that mangey lot would you call normal?”

“You seem relatively stable.”

“Yeah, well, appearances can be deceiving.”

Sally turned the bottle in her hands, giving John another assessment. “So I’ve always wondered... are you and Sherlock…?”

John met her gaze evenly. “No.” He took another drink. Best to turn the tables. “What about you? Seeing anybody?”

Sally snorted. “No. Hard to find a bloke that can deal with all the crazy shit that comes with my job.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I happen to like independent women with a bit of moxie.”

Sally arched an eyebrow at him "Is that so? How courageous of you.”

Unphased, John smiled at her, and she smiled back despite herself. “Moxie…” she repeated, looking away. “Who the hell says moxie?”

“I do.” John’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, then he stood up. “Be right back.” He returned with two more beers, passed one to Sally as he sat down. 

She tipped the bottle back and John noticed the freckles sprinkled across her cheekbones. “What do you do with your free time, then?” he asked.

Sally shrugged. “I swim, go running. Binge watch all the TV shows I’ve recorded. I bet you’re a reader.”

“I am. And I write, some.”

“The infamous blog.”

“Well, that, and other things.”

“A novel? No, wait -- mysteries?”

John shook his head, “I’m not quite ready to reveal anything yet.”

“Hmm,” Sally said, looking at him over the top of her bottle. “I bet you’re a good writer.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But I’m not a very fast typist.”

She smiled, then pried off her shoes. “Stupid heels,” she sighed, rubbing a foot with one hand. 

John set his bottle down on the floor. “Here, let me do that.” He cupped her foot in his hand, lifting it slightly while giving her a glance that sought further permission.

After a moment of hesitation, she let him guide both of her feet to rest on his thighs, shifting so her back rested against the wall. He massaged her arches and heels, ran his thumbs along each of her toes, causing her head to lean back. “That…. feels… fantastic,” she had to admit.

“Those shoes are terrible for your back and feet, you know.”

“I know. But some days I like them. They make me taller. And they look good.”

“That they do…” John’s hands moved to the base of her calves, his fingers curving around her firm muscles.

He watched her, and she watched him, the noise of the party floating between them as his hands continued to smooth up her legs.

“I think I underestimated you,” Sally finally said, her lids hooded, the bottle balanced loosely in her hand. 

“People often do,” he answered softly, his fingers gliding over the soft skin behind her knees. “A fatal mistake.”

She shivered, a reaction to his light touch on sensitive skin.

He slid his hands back down to her feet, ran his thumbs up her arches, causing her toes to curl. She let out a small exhalation, closing her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them again, she looked directly at him, then slowly leaned forward. 

“You’ve got nice eyes,” she said, feeling the warm hum of alcohol in her blood. She drew her feet down and away, scooted closer. “Such long lashes.” 

John’s gaze fell to her mouth. “And your lips… are lovely.” 

They hovered near each other, glances shifting from eyes to mouths to eyes again, until Sally leaned in gradually and they kissed tentatively, hands at their sides. They drew back slightly, gauging each other before they melted forward again, lips meeting, bolder this time. John’s fingertips played gently over her jawline, and her hand went to the back of his head, pulling him closer. 

They finally broke apart again, breathing a little heavier than they had anticipated. 

Sally’s cheeks were flushed. “I -- that --” She looked down, then moved back closer to the wall. “That was unexpected.”

John passed his hand over his mouth. “Um, yeah, sorry if --”

“No, it’s fine. Really. Sorry if I, uh, you know…”

“It’s fine.” John ran his palms over his thighs. “It was… nice.”

“Just ‘nice’?” she repeated, a bit offended.

“Really, really nice,” he clarified. “Quite… good.”

“Right. OK,” Sally said, then added, “I haven’t snogged at a party in years.”

John laughed again, the tension broken. “It is New Year’s. It’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” 

They drank several swallows in silence, both staring straight ahead. “Happy New Year,” John finally said, raising his bottle to her.

Sally clinked the base of her beer against his. “Happy New Year.”


	2. Swirl

Greg stood in the kitchen by the fridge and watched Molly from across the room, her earrings sparkling as they caught the light, her smile brightened by the red lipstick she wore. She touched Mike Stamford’s arm as they chatted, then covered her mouth as she laughed.

“You fancy her, don’t you?”

Greg turned, startled by the voice that belonged to a scraggly young man in a jumper that was too large on his bony frame.

“Billy Wiggins,” the young man introduced himself. “You’re Lestrade.”

Greg looked him over, took in Billy’s strange eyes. He looked half stoned. The other half looked as sharp as a hawk. He had a quick flashback to meeting Sherlock for the first time, completely high but wildly accurate in every cutting observation he made. Greg shifted his eyes back to Molly.

“Nice girl," Billy continued, following Greg’s gaze. “Until she slaps the shite out of you.” He grinned. “Saw her give Sherlock what for once.”

Greg turned back to Billy. “Sorry, _who_ are you?”

“I help Sherlock out now and then… with this an’ that,” Billy took a sip of his beer, then kept talking. “You’re thinking she’s flirting with that bloke there. She’s not. It’s just friendly.”

Greg was taken aback. “Just what makes you think -- I didn’t say--” To stop himself from stammering on, he took a slug of the whiskey in his glass, one hand on his hip, his elbow jutting out defensively.

“Now Molly’s an interesting lady,” Billy went on. “She broke off her engagement. Bit of a rebound situation that went too far, I reckon. Had her heart wrenched around before that, so you gotta go slow.”

Greg stared at Billy. “What are you, some kind of relationship expert?”

“Nah. I just observe things. Make deductions. I watch people all the time.”

“Oh, god,” Greg intoned, running a thumb across his forehead. Not another one.

“She’s no wilting flower, but right now she’s all delicate-like,” Billy surmised, warming to his topic. “So if I was you, I’d go talk to her, make some nice conversation. Then in a few days, ask her out for coffee, then maybe lunch if that goes well… work up to a drink after work, then a proper date with dinner.”

“What makes you think she’d be interested in me?” Greg asked against his better judgment.

“I watched how she’s looked at you. Flicks her eyes over to see where you are. Didn’t you notice?”

“Well… no.”

“I don’t think she wants to rush into anything, but if she found someone she could trust, a nice, slow build… yeah…” Billy smiled dreamily, sighed a little.

Greg took another drink, not quite believing the odd conversation. And yet, he let himself continue to be pulled into it… “So, you really think I have a chance?”

“Oh, sure. I mean, you’re a good lookin’ guy, you understand each other’s work, both been through crap relationships… Why not?”

Greg stood looking at Molly again, gathering his wits to go talk to her. He and Billy lifted their drinks in sync, contemplating.

“One more thing that might help,” Billy started, then stopped. “But you may not want to know this part.”

“What part?” Greg asked.

“It’s a bit… personal.”

“Everything you say is personal, so let’s hear it,” Greg said impatiently.

“So I had this girlfriend once. We broke up, blah blah blah, but she..." Billy leaned closer to Greg, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “she was the best damn kisser I’ve ever known. I still think about those kisses. She had this little thing she did, see…” he hesitated, looking for the right words.

“What? What thing?” Greg was far more intrigued than he should have been.

“It was this little motion with her tongue… hell, it’s really hard to put into words. But we’d kiss for hours, drive each other mad.”

Greg loosened his collar. Just thinking about kissing Molly once, let alone for hours, was making him warm. “So, you can’t describe it?”

“Nah… you have to experience it.”

“Hmm.” Greg said. Maybe he was a more than a little bit drunk, but curiosity was getting the better of him. “Show me.”

Billy blinked at him. “Wha?”

“Show me,” Greg glanced around, then nodded his head to the hallway that led to Sherlock’s bedroom. “You can’t say something like that and not prove it.” He walked toward the bedroom, Billy trailing after him.

Greg pushed open the door to the room that was dim and empty except for the pile of coats and scarves on the bed. He shut the door behind them. “OK, quick, just… just do it.”

“Um, you sure about this, mate?"

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg took a last swallow of his whiskey. “It’s been a long time since I’ve dated. I can use some new tips, so just…show me.”

Billy cleared his throat. “All right, as a favour… So you just sort of,” he angled closer to Greg, awkwardly breaking the personal space between them, “come in for the kiss like so, and…” he stopped speaking, his mouth quite near to Greg’s.

They both closed their eyes and let their mouths fall together, their shoulders initially going stiff as they touched. After another moment they both relaxed a bit, their minds substituting other people in their places, readjusting, letting imagination take over. Greg did his best to block out the scratchy stubble moving against his own five o’clock shadow, yet was a tiny bit fascinated by the sensation. He let Billy guide, trying to capture the details in order to re-create the promised unforgettable kiss.

So far, not bad, a decent kiss, Greg thought, definitely feeling a bit buzzed at this point. His hands went to Billy’s shoulders, and he felt palms sliding up his own back. All good and fine, but -- wait. What was that? A little suction on his lower lip, a little nip. That was nice. A bit more of that, then -- hmm, tip of the tongue there… a swirl…back to the bottom lip. Very nice. And a new angle now… a little exploration of his upper lip, a soft bite… Yeah… it was that swirl motion, wasn’t it, along with that teasing sucking on the lips…

Greg found himself forgetting to keep track of each movement, losing himself in the quite pleasant sensations spreading through his body. This really was a damned fine kiss…

Greg’s watched beeped twice, signaling the half hour, causing him to resurface and break off the kiss. “OK…” he said a bit too loudly, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair. “That was really helpful. I, uh… I think I got some really good pointers.”

Billy ran his sleeve across his mouth, suddenly unable to look Greg in the eye. “Sure… I told you it was good, right?”

They straightened their clothes, cleared their throats, picked up their drinks again. “So, I’m just gonna go talk to Molly,” Greg said, then reached for the door knob. He hesitated, then turned back to Billy. “Thanks for the, uh, advice.”

“No problem, mate. Hope it helps. Go find her.”

Greg nodded then pulled open the door, strode businesslike out of the room. He felt bold, alive, ready to take another chance. He scanned the room for Molly, but didn’t see her. Now where the devil did she go?


	3. Sugar

Sherlock walked towards the kitchen and bumped into John on his way out, his hands full of beer bottles, ever the good host. Their shoulders brushed, and John smiled. “Sorry, mate,” he said.

 _Mate_ , Sherlock pondered. Friendly, yet distanced. Safe. Unsatisfying. Time for another scotch. Scotch was in the kitchen.

He found Janine rooting in the cupboards, standing on the tips of the toes of her black pumps, her black velvet party dress creeping suggestively up the back of her legs as she strained to reach into the shelves. A sense of deja-vu swept over him and a slow smile crept across his face. After a heartbeat his smile turned to a frown, his brow furrowing, as something vaguely troubling crossed his mind. Guilt? Remorse? Regret? A strange mix of things, nothing he could pin down. Nothing he had wanted to think about too much.

“Find anything interesting?” he asked, coming up behind her.

Janine jumped in surprise and turned around, a bottle in each hand. “Why yes, in fact. You seem to have a bottle of potassium cyanide right next to the salt, and this bottle of liquid mercury right next to the molasses. Could be confusing, to someone in the dark. Possibly fatal.”

Sherlock gently plucked the bottles from her hands. “Let’s not mention that to anyone else, shall we?” He set them on the highest shelf, out of her reach, pushing them back to the farthest corner. “Now what is it you’re really looking for?”

“Just the sugar. Mrs. Hudson’s having a cuppa and wanted it. Thought I might still know my way around, you know?” She shrugged. “Things change. It’s all switched around.”

“John,” Sherlock acknowledged with a quick nod. “He’s very organized. The military, you know. You’ve saved me a stern lecturing, if he’d seen the way I put those things back.”

Janine smiled slyly. “John knows his way around in the dark, does he? He takes care of you now?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “We’re not--”

Janine held up her hand, cut in. “Don’t get your knickers all in a twist.” Then she relented, and sighed in turn. “I miss it, you know. This place. I liked being here. I even liked _you_ ,” she finished lightly, elbowing him in the ribs.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. “What’s all this? I thought we were good.”

Janine paused a moment, then waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, we’re good.” Then she smiled brightly, forcibly trying to lighten things up. “Oh, don’t mind me. Just get a bit sentimental on the holidays. No one to kiss at midnight makes me all moody and nostalgic.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, looking at her closely. “So, there’s no one…rummaging in your cupboards, then, shall we say?”

“Not at present, no.”

“That’s…difficult to believe,” Sherlock said, surprised. He moved a little closer to her, looking down at her lovely face, the way her nearly black hair framed her creamy skin, the way her dark eyes shone with a wicked intelligence. He’d treated her badly, he knew that. Yet here she was at the party, still pleasant and teasing, always needling him. Matching wits with him at every turn, but with kindness running beneath it all. He knew he didn’t deserve any of it. And if he was honest, he missed it - her - sometimes, too.

“Maybe you can help me find someone to kiss at midnight,” Janine suggested. “There’s other single people here. You’ve done it before, you know, matched me up.”

Seized with a rare burst of sentiment, he moved in even closer, boxing her in between his chest and the kitchen countertop. He picked up a stray dark curl of hair that lay over her shoulder, twirling it absently between his fingers. Maybe it was the scotch, maybe it was a basic need for contact, but he was suddenly, strongly, selfishly displeased by the thought of her kissing anybody in this flat. Except for, perhaps, just one.

“I think, this time, I’ll reserve that honor for myself,” he said, quietly.

He dropped her curl, slid a hand around the back of her neck, and with the other slowly tilted her chin up with a fingertip. She was surprised, but she did not resist; instead she shut her eyes, leaned into him, her hands resting against his chest, her fingertips pressing into the fabric of his dark purple shirt. He dipped his head down and placed his lips on hers, gently moving over them, feeling her respond. He remembered this, what it was like to kiss Janine. The perfume of her hair when he ran his hands through the long silky strands. He remembered her soft skin beneath his fingers, they way she touched him back, raking her long nails over the skin of his back under his shirt, just lightly scratching in a way that sent shivers of pleasure down his spine, but never breaking the surface.

He deepened the kiss suddenly; lingering, savoring, remembering. Saying _goodbye_ and _thank you_ and _I’m an arsehole_ and _I fucked up_ and _I’m sorry_ and _please forgive me_ and all the things he should have said to her, but didn’t. Hoping she might understand what his lips were saying without the spoken words. He lightly took her bottom lip between his own, teased it with his teeth, his tongue, then gently letting it go as he finally parted from her. But he did not move back nor let her go, not just yet, and rested his forehead against hers.

Collecting his thoughts, he finally spoke. “I think I wanted the chance to kiss you again, just one more time. I want you to know, Janine Hawkins, I really meant it this time.”

He sighed again, gently massaging the back of her neck. If it were possible, his soul seemed lighter. Maybe she understood. As smart as she was, he thought, perhaps she did.

Then he smiled, a little playfully. “You know, if I weren’t...” he began, waiting for her to finish the sentence for him, an ongoing private joke they sometimes shared since the wedding.

“If you weren’t so perfect for John Watson,” Janine finished, quite seriously, veering unexpectedly from the well established punch line.

Sherlock went silent for a moment, but for once did not argue, all the fight gone from him. Finally, he backed away just a little, reached up and gently tapped her on the nose.

“Minx,” he chided her, but with gentle humor in his voice. He lifted a long arm over her shoulder and took out the sugar bowl to set in her hands.

Janine cleared her throat, tossed her hair back over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright, shiny with tears, maybe, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light. “Well. Thanks for the sugar.”

And she slipped out from underneath his arm with just a small backward glance and a wistful smile, heading back into the crowded living room.


	4. Slip

Mycroft lifted his eyes briefly from his phone, watching the bright faces bob around him. Smiling, so much smiling… Was it really necessary to grin like idiots all the time? Dear god, why was he even here? Oh, yes, Anthea had accepted the invitation on his behalf, just another obligatory holiday event on his calendar he hadn’t bothered to look at too closely, not until the car had pulled up outside of Baker Street. He had shot Anthea a withering look and she smiled back in that sincerely insincere way of hers, and he just sighed and climbed out of the car.

At least Sherlock had a decent scotch on hand, a 25 Year Laphroaig, that made the evening in the dismal little flat somewhat bearable. Mycroft took another sip of the scotch, savoring its complexities, when his phone buzzed with another text.

He casually glanced at the screen, then his stomach dropped.

      _Hello again, Ice Man. I need to speak with you._

Mycroft glanced around the room once more before replying.

          _Miss Adler, I presume?_

      _You presume correctly. Won’t you pop downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat? It’s rather urgent._

Mycroft took a last swallow of his drink and turned to Anthea. “Just need to get some fresh air. Won’t be long.”

She nodded, her thumbs still working at the keyboard on her mobile.

Mycroft stood and straightened his jacket and cuffs, then vanished down the stairs, turning again to make his way toward the dark entryway of Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

He cautiously pushed open the door, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He took a few steps in, then stopped when he saw Irene Adler sitting at the kitchen table, waiting. She wore a black sheath dress, her hair and makeup perfect, a heavy fur coat draped carelessly over the chair next to her.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Mycroft said dispassionately.

“I still am, as far as most of the world knows,” she replied. “Have a seat.”

Mycroft grudgingly sat down across from her. “Does Sherlock know that you’re alive?”

“Oh, yes. He’s intimately familiar with just how alive I am,” she stretched out one shapely leg before crossing it over the other.

“Then why not contact him?” Mycroft growled, unexpectedly ruffled by her demeanor.

She smiled. “Oh, Sherlock has his talents, but you’re the one I need tonight.”

Mycroft stared at her grimly.

Irene took the hint, folded her hands, focused on business. “I need some documents -- new identification papers. And I need safe passage out of London.”

“And in return…?”

“I’ll be a consultant, your eyes and ears wherever I go, with whomever I… associate.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, considering. “And how am I to trust you after everything you’ve done?”

She glanced down at the table, then up again, the glint in her eyes suddenly subdued. “I owe an unpayable debt to Sherlock, and by extension, you.”

Mycroft tapped his fingers on the tabletop, gauging her trustworthiness, briefly wondering what had transpired between her and Sherlock. She was clever, he’d give her that. She had a way of insinuating herself into quite powerful places. She could be very useful.

“Alright,” he finally said, “Let’s discuss details.” The next 20 minutes were spent negotiating, encrypted texts were transmitted with instructions, a handshake sealed the deal at the end.

“Thank you,” Irene simply said, not letting go of Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft held her slim hand in his, his fingers lightly passing over her wrist. “I can see why my brother found you intriguing.”

Irend raised an eyebrow. “I think that’s almost a compliment. And I,” she shifted closer, letting her eyes roam down Mycroft’s torso, then up, taking in the trim waistcoat, fine shirt, scent of expensive cologne and scotch, “seem to have a weakness for you Holmes brothers.” She stood on her tiptoes, placed a soft kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Give Sherlock my love,” she said quietly, then leaned up to kiss him again. “And that’s for you.”

Irene met his eyes once more, then slipped her hand out of his grip as she backed away slowly, a small smile on her lips. She picked up her coat, slid her arms into the sleeves, and gathered the collar around her neck, the dark fur contrasting with her fair skin. “Happy New Year, Mr. Holmes.”

She left by the back door, leaving a swirl of cold air in her wake. Mycroft continued to look at the door, his fingers going to his mouth, a pretense of wiping away any traces of red lipstick.

 _The Woman,_ he mused. Indeed.


	5. Sweet

“I have no idea, Mike, why Santa doesn’t have any children,” Molly said in answer to Mike Stamford’s silly question, his lead-in to a joke.

“Because he only comes once a year and then it’s down a chimney,” Mike said with a straight face, then broke into a grin.

Molly swatted Mike playfully on the arm, covering her mouth as she laughed and cheered up a bit. Her eyes flickered from Mike’s friendly face to another familiar face over his shoulder, farther away. That face was a little older, more rugged, framed by silvery hair. And, to her, the most handsome face in the room; Greg Lestrade. He was talking to Billy Wiggins in the kitchen, holding a drink in his hand, leaning in close and apparently absorbed in conversation with him.

She sighed. Even Billy Wiggins could get his attention. She was dressed in her best party finery; a red, formfitting satin dress. Strapless, even! And yet, Greg Lestrade lingered at the fringes of the crowd, never coming near enough to talk to her.

Eyeing the snack table that they were standing next to and that she had tried to resist all evening, Molly reached down to a tray of cupcakes and took one, biting into it. It was a delicious red velvet cupcake, her favorite, covered in a mound of rich, silky pink frosting. Molly had a sweet tooth, there was no doubt about that.

Mike looked at her, his eyes darted away, then back again. “Molly,” he said, whispering, pointing at a spot on his face. “You’ve got some frosting, right here.” He pointed at his own face again, trying to indicate the exact location of the frosting.

Molly swiped at her cheek. “Did I get it?”

“No, other side,” Mike said again.

“Oh, bollocks,” Molly grumbled. “I’m just going to go find a mirror.”

Molly tried the bathroom, only to find it full. Exasperated, and strangely close to tears, she let herself out of the sitting room and sat at the top of the flight of stairs leading up to the flat.

Brilliant, just brilliant, she thought. Here she was, all dressed up, hoping she looked pretty enough to catch the eye of a certain someone, but instead she had a face full of frosting. So bloody typical. She rubbed at her lip, unsure of where exactly the offending residue was located. And then, the tears started to flow. She covered her face with her hands, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“There, luv, what’s the problem?” said a deep and feminine voice, one that Molly vaguely recognized. She pulled her hands away and saw an elegantly dressed woman standing in front of her. Long dark hair, long brown coat with a glossy black fur collar, black boots with spike heels, and elegant black gloved hands, one of which was holding a Blackberry.

The woman held out her empty hand. “I’m Anthea. Mycroft’s personal assistant. I saw you upstairs, before, but we’ve never talked, not really. I just stepped outside for a few minutes to make a phone call.”

“Oh,” Molly said, sniffing. “Of course. Pleasure to finally meet you.” She shook her hand. “I’m Dr. Molly Hooper, a pathologist. I sometimes work with the Yard.”

Anthea sat down next to her. “Well, I know it’s a party at Sherlock’s, and the Holmes brothers aren’t exactly renowned for their social skills, but can it really be bad enough for tears?” Anthea asked kindly.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing to do with them. I’m just…you know. Upset. It’s New Year’s Eve. And there’s a man I fancy in there, and he doesn’t even know I’m alive. And now I have a face full of cupcake frosting. I’m a disaster.”

Anthea looked her up and down appreciatively, took in the full view of Molly’s red dress, her perfectly done make up, her elaborately styled hair.

“Oh, whoever he is, if he’s in there and breathing, I’m quite sure he knows you’re alive.”

“Really?” Molly sniffed, her hopes rising. “You think so?”

“I know so. Now look at me. Let’s see what this frosting is all about.”

Molly lifted her chin to the light, and Anthea leaned in close.

“Hmm. Perhaps there is just a little speck right there.” She pulled off a black glove. With a long finger topped with a nail lacquered in a deep black-red gloss, she lightly stroked the skin at the corner of Molly’s lips.

“Such pretty lips you have,” Anthea said, softly.

“Sherlock once told me they’re too thin,” Molly said, suddenly sad again.

“Well, we both know Sherlock can be an idiot sometimes.” Anthea laughed lightly. “For a genius, he’s never been able to recognize the best and most beautiful things right in front of his nose. His brother’s the same.”

Anthea lightly took Molly’s chin in her hand and turned her face the other way, to catch the light on the other side to check it for frosting, as well. “And who is this man you fancy?”

Molly blushed. “The DI. Greg Lestrade. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Oh, the DI,” Anthea said, thoughtfully. “Well, he’s a good detective, he’ll follow the clues.”

“Wh-What should I do?” Molly asked, sniffing again.

“Just go back up and join the party, have a good time. He’ll come around. For something as sweet as you, he’ll definitely come around.” Anthea released her chin, raised the finger to her mouth that she used to wipe the frosting from Molly’s face and lightly enclosed the tip with her lips to taste. “So sweet,” Anthea murmured, closing her eyes, then opening them again.

Molly watched in rapt fascination as Anthea carefully pulled the glove back on. Held her breath as Anthea reached towards her and lightly trailed her fingertips down the side of her cheek, the leather both soft and scratchy at the same time as it rasped over her skin, stopping again at her chin to tilt it up to the light.

“Falling in love makes people so beautiful,” Anthea said, sighing wistfully. “So sweetly, luminously beautiful. There’s nothing more powerful than the first throes of love. Believe it. Believe in yourself. Believe in him. It’s all going to work out, you’ll see.”

Molly didn’t say anything, unsure how to respond. But there was something about Anthea that drew her towards her. She seemed more like an oracle of Delphi than a personal assistant of Westminster.

“Happy New Year, luv,” Anthea said. And then she suddenly leaned towards Molly, gently placed her lips just at the corner of her mouth where the frosting had been, Anthea’s lips half covering Molly’s, the smell of expensive perfume and rich dark leathers and furs enveloping them.

And then just as quickly, Anthea got up and moved away, leaving Molly on the stairs, one hand on the corner of her mouth where their lips had met, still tingling from the contact. Feeling strangely, powerfully beautiful.


	6. Salty

Dimmock raised his beer in hand and belted out the last refrain of a salty sailor’s drinking song along with Major James Sholto as he stood to the side of Sholto’s chair.

“Jesus, shut up!” John bellowed from the kitchen. “It’s not even midnight yet and the two of you are completely pissed. One more song like that and I’m cutting you both off!”

Dimmock leaned down and clapped Major Sholto on the shoulder, who was sagging in the chair with one leg stretched out in front of him.

“Jealous. That’s what he is,” Dimmock said, his speech slightly slurred. “Doesn’t know any Navy songs, just Army ones. Not like us well-rounded gents. And I wasn’t even in the Army or the Navy. I just know stuff.”

Dimmock looked around him, found an empty folding chair and pulled it over next to Sholto with a frightening screech of chair legs against wood floor causing heads to swivel in their direction, then flopped down into it.

“Oops,” Dimmock said, raising a hand to his mouth. “That was loud,” he whispered loudly, then giggled. He took another swig of his beer. “Now what was it we were talking about before that song?”

“Responsibility,” Major Sholto intoned, also slightly slurring his words. “The crushing yet exhilarating responsibility of having precious lives in your hands. Of looking out for every man under you, making sure nothing goes wrong on your watch. And the responsibility of owning up to it, if things do go wrong.” Sholto took a long pull of beer, wiped his mouth with the side of his good hand that now trembled slightly. “For the rest of your life, if necessary.”

Dimmock swayed a little in his rickety old chair, the kind stored in the closet and only brought out for parties, and leaned towards Sholto conspiratorially. “I couldn’t agree more. It’s a big responsibility, being a DI. There are a lot of people on the team, many of them under me. I’m responsible.” He waved a hand between them. “I think we’re a lot the same, you and me. Gave our careers our all. So we’re like a team, you and me, right?”

Sholto nodded slightly, allowed Dimmock to clink beer bottles with him.

Dimmock then leaned back in his chair, the hand holding his beer dangling to the side. “It’s hard work, this kind of stuff. Doesn’t leave much room for a private life.” He glanced at the clock. “Look at that. Just a few minutes to midnight.” He snorted. “Probably all these people here are going to pair up and snog each other senseless.”

Although, Dimmock had to admit, when he actually looked around the room, there wasn’t a single person there, with the sole exception of Philip Anderson, who had brought a date. Probably none of them was going to get kissed tonight. Poor bastards, the lot of them.

Sholto laughed bitterly. “I’ll never be snogged senseless again.”

Dimmock looked over at him again. “Why do you say that?”

“Have a good look at me. My reputation is in ruins, I’m a physical wreck and in pain all the time, and my temper proves it. I’ll be alone forever.”

Dimmock was aghast, appalled by the thought of his new friend alone and suffering. “Well, that is just not true. _Not true_.”

The clock started to chime midnight. Suddenly, a wave of drunken affection welled up in Dimmock.

“Dammit, Sholto, no one on my team goes without a kiss on midnight. _Not on my watch_!”

Dimmock suddenly bent forward, tipped too far on his insecure chair and fell forward heavily, half sprawled across Sholto’s lap, arms to either side of Sholto’s neck. Without the slightest hesitation Dimmock planted a sloppy kiss on Sholto’s mouth, who at first was surprised and stiffened up. But after a second or two, Sholto relaxed under the insistent pressure of Dimmock’s lips, who, due to the level of his inebriation and position, couldn’t quite propel himself backwards to disengage from the snogging easily, even if he had wanted to. And, for a good long minute, it didn’t seem like he wanted to, nor did Sholto make any move to use his good arm to help him off. Finally, Dimmock got use of his limbs again and managed to leverage gravity and pushed himself off of Sholto, completely unabashed and grinning.

“Well,” Sholto harrumphed. “Well.” He straightened his tie. “That was…not bad, actually. Well done, soldier.”

Then Sholto smoothed down his sweater vest, a slight crook of a smile beginning at the corner of his lips which was quickly tamped down, his voice quite stern. “We will never speak of this again, Dimmock.”

Dimmock laughed. “Sure. My lips are sealed.” He stood up unsteadily, gestured towards Sholto. “Another beer?”

“God, yes” Sholto said, and then could not stop the genuine smile that broke out the minute Dimmock turned his back to sway toward the kitchen to get more beer, singing another off-color sea shanty under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for the two long overdue kisses? Then read on...


	7. Spectacular

Molly finally got up from the stairs, wiped the tears from under her eyes, and threw her shoulders back with determination. Only one question remained now. Where was Greg Lestrade? Forget waiting for him to come to her. She was beautiful, powerful, luminous, and frosting-free. Anybody would be lucky to have her. And he was going to be the lucky recipient.

In the distance, she could hear the clock beginning to chime at midnight. Oh god, she was going to miss it. She was going to miss her chance. She’d been crying over spilt milk on the stairs and she was going to miss her chance. She’d always wanted to kiss someone at midnight and it seemed like it never worked out, year after year, for some stupid reason or another. She made for the closed door to the sitting room and burst inside, scanning the crowd.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Anthea and Mycroft sitting on the sofa, side by side. Quite unexpectedly, Mycroft leaned over and very gently placed the softest of kisses on her cheek, causing Anthea to look up with a slight smile and to put the Blackberry down in her lap. Billy Wiggins pulled Mrs. Hudson, who was shrieking with laughter and half-hearted protestations, into his arms and kissed her quite soundly while dipping her dramatically. Mrs. Hudson’s fake protestations ceased immediately. Janine and Sally Donovan were quietly talking in a corner, but gave each other a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Sholto and Dimmock were doing…well, whatever.

Precious seconds ticked by, and the chimes of the clock continued relentlessly with an increasing crescendo in her ear. She ran to the kitchen, but he was not there. She continued down the hallway at a run. There, at the end of the hallway, Sherlock’s bedroom, as yet unchecked. She walked in, seeing nothing but a pile of coats on the bed in front on her, barely visible in the darkness.

Suddenly a large hand touched her gently on her shoulder, and she turned around in surprise. It was Greg Lestrade, at last. He looked down at her, wonder and relief in his eyes. “Molly!” he exclaimed. “Thank god! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, thought you might be in here. Don’t know why, you weren't anywhere else…”

“I was looking for _you_ ,” she said, breathlessly. “It’s so dark in here, how’d you know it was me?”

He laughed a strangled laugh. “How would I not? You look so beautiful tonight. That red dress is permanently burned into my retinas, I’ve stared at it so much tonight. But anyway…I always know when it’s you. I can just feel it. I always know.”

They hadn’t talked to each other all night. Hell, not even much outside of work lately, although their eyes had followed every last move the other had made for months, if not years. Each afraid to make the first move, each afraid to alter their friendship, each afraid of being hurt again. It was now or never. Greg tentatively moved his hand from her shoulder to her waist, the other arm coming to pull her lightly towards him. Her arms now slid around him in return. He hesitated briefly for a moment, but then made a sudden decision and reached behind him to push the door shut.

All those stolen glances, all those carefully chosen words, all that ridiculous deliberate care taken not to touch each other whenever within reach at work. All the dreams and thoughts and fantasies they’d ever had, coming together right now, right this very instant. It was midnight on New Year’s Eve, a moment full of magic and promise and no regrets if ever there was one.

“I meant to take this slow...” he said, his head already descending down to hers. “But I’m not going to miss kissing you at midnight.”

“Screw slow,” Molly sighed, taking his head between her hands, pulling him down to her even faster.

And that was really it, that was all it took: a clock chiming at midnight, bodies pressed against each other, eyes locked, a dark and quiet room, door closed. No more words needed to be said. They had waited long enough.

His lips finally met hers. Finally. A hand strayed over a bare shoulder, brushing back a long lock of hair, sliding around her neck. He leaned over her, bending her in his arms, walking her forward just a few feet, until they sank down into the bed atop a pile of coats: nylon, down, cloth, leather, furs, he on top, her sinking down into the pile’s soft and yielding embrace. He kissed her fully then, hands at either side of her face, holding her still so he could get his fill of her. And then she felt it. A little suction on her lower lip, a little nip. That was nice, so very nice. He prolonged that exploration, responding to her enthusiastic response. A bit more of that…then…there, with the tongue, some kind of swirling motion, absolutely heavenly. More nipping, back to the bottom lip…

He then began to explore her upper lip, left the softest of bites there…again, that swirling motion that had her moaning deep in her throat, her moving in frustration beneath him, pinned by his weight ...more swirling, combined with a teasing, a sucking on the lips…until finally they broke apart, both gasping for air, staring at each other in amazement. She dissolved back into the pile of coats, a circle of a dark fur collar cradling her head. She felt beautiful, safe, wanted… leaving her soft and pliant beneath him, his fingertips gently stroking her cheek.

He pulled away slightly, his breathing still ragged. “Happy New Year, Molly. I hope...I hope you might like to spend some of it...with me?”

"There's nothing I'd like more!" Molly sighed deeply, stretching with sinuous grace. “That was the best kiss I ever had. That was...well...spectacular. I could do that for hours.”

"Me, too." A huge smile broke out across his face. "Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night?"

"I'd love that."

“I owe you one, Billy,” she heard him say under his breath, not understanding what he meant, and not really caring. She was too busy pulling his lips back down to hers...


	8. Shatter

The party finally broke up well after midnight, the guests bundling up to go outside again, leaving in groups and pairs, making plans to share taxis or grab a late bite before meandering home. Mrs. Hudson was delighted, doling out hugs and kisses on cheeks before returning to her own flat downstairs.

John picked up a few empty bottles and set them on the kitchen table. “Good party,” he commented offhandedly as he returned to the sitting room.

Sherlock was standing next to the window, gazing down at revelers straggling by in the street. “Look at them all, so hopeful that a new year will bring something different.”

John watched him for a moment. “It might. You never know.” He gathered several more glasses and plates. “C’mon, weren’t you tempted to wish for something at midnight?”

Sherlock was silent, then let the curtain drop back into place. “Maybe,” he shrugged, then pushed himself away from the window, weaving slightly before mastering his balance again.

John smirked and almost said something, but then he wasn't exactly sober, either. Instead, he leaned down to pick up another dish. “Kiss anyone at midnight?” he asked casually, expecting a disdainful reply.

“Um, no,” Sherlock answered. “That happened before midnight, I believe.”

The plates slipped in John’s hands with a rattle. _Sherlock kissed someone?_

“Oh,” John said, then took a deep breath. “Me too, actually. Never was any good with timing,” he muttered and turned back to the kitchen, his head swimming.

Sherlock stared after John, wondering who he had kissed. He shook himself. _Stop it._

After a moment, Sherlock picked up two glasses in a vague attempt to help clean up. As he passed through the kitchen doorway, he saw John on his tiptoes, reaching up to precariously replace a bottle of liquor on a high shelf.

“Careful,” Sherlock cautioned, “that’s a 25-year-old scotch.” He moved to stand behind John, stretched his arm out, and easily slid the bottle safely into place with a soft scrape against the wood. He then hesitated, realizing how very close he was to John, his chest curved against his back. He flashed back to Janine and their kiss against the countertop just hours ago. That was sentiment, an apology, a mending. Here now with John, he felt something completely different, something much more sharp and visceral.

There was a drawn-out silence, a sudden tension strung heavily between them. Sherlock watched how John’s shoulders expanded as he breathed, his hands gripping the worktop. Sherlock knew he should have stepped away by now, but couldn’t bring himself to move. His eyes fixed on the back of John’s neck, the exposed skin so vulnerable. He lightly dropped his hand to John’s shoulder, his thumb skimming along John’s nape.

John drew in a shaky breath, causing something raw to claw up from Sherlock’s gut and heart. He was tired of being cautious, exhausted by the distance between them. Following a long-suppressed impulse, he slowly bent and placed his lips against John’s neck, soaking in the heat radiating off his skin.

“Sherlock…” John started, then faltered when he felt the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth move beneath his ear, the dark curls brushing against his cheek, a frisson of pleasure running down his spine. Six heartbeats passed.

Suddenly terrified of what he’d just done, Sherlock cautiously drew back, stunned for several seconds. He should have expected it when John slowly turned and fixed him with that look -- that soldier’s glare that meant he was ready to punch or quite possibly kill him.

Sherlock began to raise his hands in a gesture indicating he meant no harm, his mind scrabbling for drunken excuses, when John seized him around the neck and propelled him back two steps, breathing hard.

“Why didn’t you say something before? Why now?” John seethed through gritted teeth.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, his palms still open, completely unprepared as John groaned, wrenching him closer, covering his mouth in a rough and desperate kiss, igniting a mix of confusion and arousal in Sherlock.

John drew away slightly, his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s. “You idiot,” he gasped accusingly, his hands tightening at the base of Sherlock’s skull. “I’ve been waiting for a sign from you -- _anything_ from you -- for _years_.”

"I didn't-- " Sherlock began weakly, his mouth still burning from the kiss, his mind finally catching up. _Didn’t what? See? Comprehend? Understand?_   “I didn’t -- dare hope...” he heard himself say haltingly.

John gazed at him, still grasping him tightly, his expression and grip gradually softening as Sherlock’s words sank in. “You idiot,” he finally repeated quietly, pressing into him, his mouth seeking Sherlock’s over and over again, wanting to reassure and devour him in equal measure.

Through a haze of scotch and surprise, Sherlock found himself responding just as strongly, his hands clutching at John’s back as they kissed hungrily, hearts racing, breath ragged. They stumbled back several more steps, crashing into the table, toppling over several glasses and a stack of plates, unleashing a cacophony of glass shattering against the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” John muttered distractedly, pinning Sherlock against the table with his hips.

“Leave it,” Sherlock murmured.

“The glass…”

“Come here…”

They wove back toward the sitting room, sinking to the wool rug, too entranced with each other to care about the crumbs and cups and bottles scattered on the floor. All that mattered were throats, lips, jawlines, fingers twining in hair and freeing buttons. The room was nothing but backs, ribs, hips, and hands -- everywhere, moving, slipping on, off, over. Little moans, the glide of fabric over skin, palms sliding between thighs, a hiss of indrawn breath, small sighs.

“John…” Sherlock finally breathed out, a secret to confess, John’s mouth at the hollow of his throat, their bodies pressed together, the rug rough beneath his back, “this is what I wished for at midnight.”

John kissed his way up the long, pale neck, smoothed the curls away from Sherlock’s forehead, drinking in the ever-changing blue of his eyes before he finally smiled. “Me too.”

John lowered his head and they kissed deeply again, drunk with lips and hands and bare skin in the small hours of a new year.


End file.
